Muse (standard:drama, 1167 words)
Author: Lusa	Added: Oct 22 2001	Views/Reads: 3333/2367	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A short story from the perspective of a teenage boy watching the girl he has put on a pedestal.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

She is almost too good sometimes, too innocent and unconcerned, like a
bright-eyed little pixie untouched by the affairs of mortals. But she 
is touched by them-- too tiny, too fragile, the touch bruises her. 
Unhappy, I've watched her go days without really smiling. 

But just before she becomes too human, her chin tilts to the side and
she looks up-- she's small, so she's always looking up-- and everything 
about the world drops away from her in one elfin smile, eyebrows 
arching in privilege to some mischievous amusement no one else can see. 


I gave her fairy-like wings, in the drawing I gave her, but she doesn't
need them. 

"Speaking of that," Sam's voice drops low and he shuts his locker. "We
stocked up?" 

"Believe it, brother," Taylor climbs to his feet. "Matt Carson's sharing
his wealth today. I told him to come by at lunchtime." 

In a few minutes that'll be all that I'm concerned with, my next high.
But right now I keep glancing back, over my shoulder, watching her even 
though I know it's just going to get me more shit from Taylor. I want 
to know why she's so good, why she doesn't do drugs or drink, why she 
doesn't smile at me anymore, why she was crying at lunch a couple days 
ago. I want to know what it is about giraffes that she likes, I want to 
watch the way her foot stamps when she laughs and how her arms swing 
when she walks. 

I want to draw her how she is, not how I see her. 

She's looking at me now, over her friend's shoulder, and her bone-china
face is pensive, brows pulled together and mouth tucked. I don't bother 
looking away. In fact, I catch myself almost stepping toward her. I 
want to touch the short, tousled strands of fine, fawn-coloured hair, 
want to watch it reflect light when she turns her head. I want to touch 
her shoulders, skin milky and easily torn. I want to see if I can smell 
stars in her neck and taste heaven in her mouth. I want to see if she 
disappears under my hands. 

I don't want her to be real. 

I want her to be mine. 

But instead I look away, deliberately, falling into a turn toward the
doors. Finally, the thought of weed is starting to get to me. I'm tired 
of thinking about her, tired of thinking as a matter of fact. 
"Lunchtime?" I say, stepping away from the locker. "We got ten minutes 
before school starts. I'm not waiting." 

It doesn't take much convincing to sway Sam and Taylor, and  they follow
easily when I start strolling away. This time when I pass her, her 
friend is gone, and she smiles at me, a small, strange, cautious smile 
I've never seen on her before. I don't return it, don't really think 
to. 

The artist's passion is for his painting, not the model. 

Right? 

But even with the hankering for hash as a steadily increasing pull on my
attention, I glance back, just once, at her as we round the corner. 
She's sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, staring away with soft, 
unfocused eyes and fallen shoulders. 

That night at home I draw her again, this time with that strange. smile.
But it's not right. So I erase her wings, her elf ears. The smile 
doesn't look so weird now. Just kind of sad. 

And familiar. 

Too familiar. 

Too human. 

Like me. 

I throw the picture away.


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